Longing, we say, because desire is full
of endless distances.
Whenever I sat down to write, it felt like a tragic fate I had to endure. There is pleasure only in retrospect.
Who then devised the torment? Love.
It’s a great art: to love and keep still.
If the morning is cold: begin with the scars at the bottom.
All my life I have tried
to love God
without his knowing.
Between grief and nothing I will take grief.
You mean that’s your idea of desire, with all those commas?
We sleep in language, if language does not come to wake us with its strangeness.